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The dark had always scared him. Not that it was the dark itself with its encompassing body curling around everything, but the fact that it could hide anything smart enough to stay quiet and lie awake, keen eyes piercing through the heavy blanket of opaque ink to capture its victim in a ripping array of teeth, claws and poison.
When he was little, and his twin shared a room with him, Dirk would always keep a nightlight on. It was a simple square, emitting a soft, golden light that reminded him of the sun concealed partially by clouds on a cooling summer evening. It made him feel safe, as if the lurking monsters and demons of the night could not creep into his room then. Dave had called him a baby until they were twelve, but Dirk was more concerned about being eaten alive or torn limb from limb to be concerned about his brother’s judgement.
As he grew older, the nightlight grew dimmer. His bedrooms became larger, and corners of his room were soon voids in which anything and everything could crawl out of. Gigantic, scaled beasts with snapping jaws and fierce eyes, or slithering pythons slick with some grotesque goo intent on squeezing out his very last breath. The shocking fears of monsters gradually became frail dreams that Dirk could push his way through, but the dark was still a personal enemy.
While he feared not dangerous imaginary creatures, he did fear his own thoughts. Trapped in the recesses of his own mind were perilous thoughts fueled by cruel self-hatred. At one point, Dirk thought he could see his own subconscious evils rise up like plumes of smoke and strike out to strangle him. The fires of his happiness during the day dwindled down to ashes of jolting fright when night struck. The nightlight was on immediately when the sun went down. He was not taking any chances, no other lamps would do.
Dave had stopped trying to bully his brother into sleeping without it. He had spent so long grumbling into his hands at night when the light switched on, or throwing pillows across the room that Dave had given up. He knew Dirk was a bit of a worrywart, but not to the extreme extent he was unaware of.
In their childhood, doctors tested him and labelled him with all kinds of disorders and diseases, reading them off like his mind was some kind of psychological grocery list. It infuriated Dave, and he eagerly flicked every light switch, turned on every stereo and television and filled up their room with flashlights. The Strider home was utterly illuminated, but he did not care. If Dirk could not sleep in the dark, then Dave would simply sleep in the light.
He was fourteen when he laid beside Dave on a Saturday night, the window open and frigid air bursting in. Dave had remembered, when they were six years old, Dirk had murmured sleepily that he liked sleeping in the cold. It was winter, the wind was harsh in its short bursts, but Dave shivered through it. It did not matter to him. He had taken the nightlight and plugged it into an outlet nearby, as he always did, the gentle glow pulsating out to tenderly lull the boys to sleep.
Dirk stared at the ceiling, arms rigid on either side of him. Similarly, Dave laid on his back, both without shades and shirts.
“They said I’m schizophrenic.” He began, his hand patting the sheet below him, searching. Dave held his hand.
“You’re not schizophrenic. They’re lying.” He sighed through his nose.
Dirk squeezed his hand until two knuckles cracked and he relieved the tension with a looser grip. “They think I’m crazy.”
“That’s alright. You’re cool the way you are, crazy or not.”
“I hate myself.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
Pressing his lips into a tight line, Dave opened his mouth to reply, “It’s okay. I love you enough for the both of us.”
The following days were uneventful in Dave’s eyes. Dirk was prescribed medicine, ugly pills with filmy tastes like disgust crushed into tablet form. He took them the first day, detested himself more, and threw his pills down the sink when no one was looking. He chiseled fake smiles onto his concrete face and the adults in his life described him as well-adjusted, intelligent, kind. His heart cracked in two, his stomach twisted into oily knots and his mind swam in an endless sea of anxiety.
He had his own room, but it scared him. Feeling as though he were bobbing in an ocean and his fears were sea-birds rushing down and pecking him away until he was merely a heap of bones, hair and nails.
He forgot he was a person at times, a human being, feeling as though his only purpose in life was to be a miserable, paranoid skeleton with muscle, skin, and blood coiled around him.
Dave welcomed Dirk into his own room when he needed it.
They stared at the ceiling again, seventeen years old in the middle of summer. To the right, diagonally to a window was the comforting nightlight. A portable fan blew from Dirk’s side of Dave’s bed, both clad in boxers and sweat. Dirk did not sleep just yet, and Dave quietly announced the time.
“Two fifty-two.”
“Two pills, fifty apologies, two brothers in a bed.”
He laughed faintly, too loud and the inner ghosts would hear. “That wasn’t needed.”
“…D’you think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re crazy to still be awake right now.”
“You’re the only one that doesn’t think I’ve gone off the deep end.” Their breaths matched and the silent ceiling-stares commenced once again. Dave screwed his eyes shut and saw swirls of neon colors and fireworks of various hues burst in front of his eyes. He wondered, a fleeting thought, if Dirk saw things this way himself, only less color and more morbidity.
“Why are you so afraid of the dark, anyway?” Dave tried not to sound accusatory, more loving, his words floating through the air like dust suspended in front of a clean window.
“I’m not afraid of the dark,” He pushed his bangs from his sticky forehead, exposed orange eyes trained on the plain white ceiling, “I’m afraid of what hides in it.”
“And what hides in the dark?”
“Anything, Dave. And that’s what terrifying.”
He hummed, “It’s fine to be afraid. I’m afraid of shit, too.”
“How afraid?”
“Like piss-my-pants afraid.”
The bed creaked, and Dirk shifted to his side to stare at his twin. The other turned his head, returning the gaze with his own carmine one.
He was whispering now, his hair plastered to his face from sweat, “Dave, are you afraid of me?”
“Never,” Dave laid on his side as well, matching Dirk pose for pose, word for word. “Never in a thousand years.”
Relieved, Dirk fell asleep. Smiling, Dave turned out the nightlight.